Arthur Clarke - The Ghost from the Grand Banks

“I’ve read that ,” said Emerson proudly. “ The Old Man and the Sea. ”

“Top of the class, Roy. I’ve always thought it a tragedy that Kipling never wrote an epic poem about Titanic. Maybe he intended to, but Hardy beat him to it.”

“Hardy?”

“Never mind. Please excuse us, Rudyard, while we get down to business…”

Three flat display panels (and how they would have fascinated Kipling!) flipped up simultaneously. Glancing at his, Rupert Parkinson began: “We have your report dated thirtieth April. I assume that you’ve no further inputs since then?”

“Nothing important. My staff has rechecked all the figures. We think we could improve on them—but we prefer to be conservative. I’ve never known a major underwater operation that didn’t have some surprises.”

“Even your famous encounter with Oscar?”

“Biggest surprise of all. Went even better than I’d expected.”

“What about the status of Explorer ?”

“No change, Rupe. She’s still mothballed in Suisun Bay.”

Parkinson flinched slightly at the “Rupe.” At least it was better than “Parky”—permitted only to intimate friends.

“It’s hard to believe,” said Emerson, “that such a valuable—such a unique —ship has only been used once.”

“She’s too big to run economically, for any normal commercial project. Only the CIA could afford her—and it got its wrist slapped by Congress.”

“I believe they once tried to hire her to the Russians.”

Bradley looked at Parkinson, and grinned. “So you know about that?”

“Of course. We did a lot of research before we came to you.”

“I’m lost,” said Emerson. “Fill me in, please.”

“Well, back in 1989 one of their newest Russian submarines—”

“Only Mike class they ever built.”

“—sank in the North Sea, and some bright chappie in the Pentagon said: “Hey—perhaps we can get some of our money back!” But nothing ever came of it. Or did it, Jason?”

“Well, it wasn’t the Pentagon’s idea; no one there with that much imagination. But I can tell you that I spent a pleasant week in Geneva with the deputy director of the CIA and three admirals—one of ours, two of theirs. That was… ah, in the spring of 1990. Just when the Reformation was starting, so everyone lost interest. Igor and Alexei resigned to go into the export-import business; I still get Xmas cards every year from their office in Lenin—I mean Saint Pete. As you said, nothing ever came of the idea; but we all put on about ten kilos and took weeks to get back into shape.”

“I know those Geneva restaurants. If you had to get Explorer shipshape, how long would it take?”

“If I can pick the men, three to four months. That’s the only time estimate I can be sure of. Getting down to the wreck, checking its integrity, building any additional structural supports, getting your billions of glass balloons down to it—frankly, even those maximum figures I’ve put in brackets are only guesstimates. But I’ll be able to refine them after the initial survey.”

“That seems very reasonable: I appreciate your frankness. At this stage, all we really want to know is whether the project is even feasible —in the time frame.”

“Timewise—yes. Costwise—who knows? What’s your ceiling, anyway?”

Rupert Parkinson pretended to wince at the bluntness of the question.

“We’re still doing our sums—aren’t we, Roy?”

Some signal passed between them that Bradley could not interpret, but Emerson gave a clue with his reply.

“I’m still prepared to match anything the board puts up, Rupert. If the operation succeeds, I’ll get it all back on Plan B.”

“And what, may I ask, is Plan B?” said Bradley. “For that matter, what’s Plan A? You still haven’t told me what you intend to do with the hull, when you’ve towed it to New York. Do a Vasa ?”

Parkinson threw up his hands in mock dismay. “He’s guessed Plan C,” he said with a groan. “Yes, we had thought of putting her on display, after we’d brought her into Manhattan—a hundred years behind schedule. But you know what happens to an iron ship when it’s brought to the surface after a few decades underwater—preserving a wooden one is bad enough. Pickling Titanic in the right chemicals would take decades—and probably cost more than raising her.”

“So you’ll leave her in shallow water. Which means you’ll be taking her to Florida, just as that TV show suggested.”

“Look, Jason—we’re still exploring all options: Disney World is only one of them. We won’t even be disappointed if we have to leave her on the bottom—as long as we can salvage what’s in Great-Grandfather’s suite. It’s lucky he refused to let all those chests be carried as cargo; his very last marconigram complained that he had no space for entertaining.”

“And you’re confident that all that fragile glass will still be intact?”

“Ninety percent of it. The Chinese discovered centuries ago that their wares could travel safely the length of the Silk Road—if they were packed in tea leaves. No one found anything better until polystyrene foam came along; and of course you can sell the tea, and make a nice profit on that as well.”

“I doubt it, for this particular consignment.”

“Afraid you’re right. Pity—it was a personal gift from Sir Thomas Lipton—the very best from his Ceylon estates.”

“You’re quite sure it would have absorbed the impact?”

“Easily. The ship plowed into soft mud at an angle, doing about thirty knots. Average deceleration two gee—maximum five.”

Rupert Parkinson folded down the display panel and clicked shut the miracle of electronic intelligence which was now as casually accepted as the telephone had been a lifetime earlier.

“We’ll call you again before the end of the week, Jason,” continued Parkinson. “There’s a board meeting tomorrow, and I hope it will settle matters. Again, many thanks for your report; if we decide to go ahead, can we count on you?”

“In what way?”

“As O.i.C. operations, of course.”

There was a long pause; a little too long, Parkinson thought.

“I’m flattered, Rupe. I’d have to think it over—see how I could fit it into my schedule.”

“Really, Jason—you wouldn’t have any ‘schedule’ if this goes ahead. It’s the biggest job you’ll ever be offered.” He almost added “Perhaps it’s too big,” but then thought better of it. Jason Bradley was not the sort of man one cared to annoy, especially if one hoped to do business with him.

“I quite agree,” Bradley said, “and I’d like to take it on. Not just for the cash—which I’m sure will be okay—but the challenge. Win or lose. Very nice meeting you both—gotta run.”

“Aren’t you seeing anything of London? I can get you tickets to the new Andrew Lloyd Webber-Stephen King show. There aren’t many people who can make that claim.”

Bradley laughed. “Love to go—but they’ve managed to total a slugcatcher in the Orkneys field, and I’ve promised to be in Aberdeen by this afternoon.”

“Very well. We’ll keep in touch…”

“What do you think, Roy?” Parkinson asked, when the room was quiet again.

“Tough little guy, isn’t he? Do you suppose he’s holding out for the highest bidder?”

“That’s just what I was wondering. If he is, he’ll be out of luck.”

“Oh—our legal eagles have done their thing?”

“Almost; there are still some loose ends. Remember when I took you to Lloyd’s?”

“I certainly do.”